How it Came to Be
by Denim003
Summary: self explanitory-how Natasha and Clint met and came to work together. Why he didn't kill her when he had orders to take her out. Mostly movie-verse, maybe a little tiny comic-verse if you look hard, and mostly my own imagination twisting what probably really happened but sticking to the main details at large-that Clint went directly against SHIELD and brought her back alive.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay, so here's the deal. There's basically no comic-verse here, except for a little if you look hard, it's mostly all movie verse and my own imagination unleashed. And, fyi, this one is a little bit more drablly than the rest will be. There's a lot of thoughts/character development in Clint right here, not that it's bad—just a heads up that there will be more physical, non-drabble following the intro description. Also: Obviously not mine since I'm on fanfiction and not a comic book and/or screenplay writer. EnJoY!**

**P.S. it's all third person but switches back and forth from following Clint or Natasha occasionally. You'll know it when you see it.**

It was a cold and overcast day, dark clouds threatening to unleash rain at any minute, and the cold wind ruffled the archer's hair as he sat high up in her perch on top of a roof. He lightly ran his tongue over the pad of his thumb and flicked through the papers in the thin, tan folder. It wasn't much. Clint had probably found out more in the past three days of surveillance than was in the whole folder combined, but it was important to keep referencing the facts SHIELD gave him to double check even himself.

So far, the most concrete things the folder had given him were that the target was a woman, and she had conspicuously red hair. He found the latter a bit conflictive in itself. Clint knew from experience that being recognized could mean the difference between life and death, so surely she did too. So why not hide the trademark hair? Why not dye it brown, or don a wig?

The archer shook his head and tucked the folder back into his bag—chalking it up to the vanity of women.

He averted his gaze to the far end of the street. He didn't need binoculars, his sight being twenty-twenty and better still, but when she walked around the corner and he got his first ever clear glimpse of her face, he wondered if it wasn't failing him after all.

There was no way the woman—no, _girl_—who had just turned the corner was his target. Of course, Clint wasn't too old himself, at the time in his mid-twenties, but there was no way that she, appearing to only be barely hitting twenty, if not younger, could be the target he was supposed to kill. She had to be maybe a few inches shorter than him, a little pale and delicate at first look, her short and wavy red hair resting just barely on her shoulders. No—she could _not_ be the target. Not possible.

But she somehow was, and Clint knew it. He had been trailing the Black Widow for days and knew it was her, even if this was his first time getting a straightforward and clear view of her. She may not have been the muscled and fearful Russian he had been expecting, but she must've been the target. Maybe that was how she kept a low profile—no one would believe she was capable of what she was said to be. But boy could looks be deceiving.

So there he sat, with a clear shot. The _perfect_ shot, one in his line of work would say. There were no bystanders, since the weather had driven all but few inside. There wasn't really any cover for the girl. The Widow wouldn't even know what hit her. She'd be dead without knowing of her own death. She'd not even have time to hear or see the arrow, and it would drop her instantly. Clint raised his bow. He slid an arrow out of his quiver and drew it back.

But he hesitated.

One minute of hesitation, and he knew he wasn't going to shoot, even if he kept his bow drawn. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Something about her captivated him, the deceiving red-head. And then, something about her made him sympathize. She was so much like himself, just she had ended up in the hands of different people—the wrong people.

He couldn't seem to loose the arrow that would kill the Widow right then and there, and that one moment of hesitation was probably all it took. Before he knew it, she had passed out of the line of fire and around a corner.

He let a small curse slip from between his teeth and for the first time in what felt like hours, Coulson's voice chattered away through the little device in his ear, "Barton? Barton, what was that supposed to mean? Details, agent."

Boy would he be in for it if Coulson knew he had just let one of the world's most deadly killers, next to himself, of course, pass by unscathed. He shrugged to no one in particular and replied, "Nothing. Just—Nothing. I didn't have a clear shot is all."

"Get your head in it, Barton. You usually have them by now," Coulson sighed. He knew he was giving his handler grief with the delay, and back at SHIELD, Fury was probably all over his case for every minute this threat was running about and could kill someone else. He tried not to grieve Coulson, he really did. He was one of the only handlers who had stuck with him. But what could he say.

"I'm on it, don't worry," he said, shrugging his bag onto his shoulder, taking his bow, and running lightly across the meshed-together rooftops in pursuit of the target. "I'm following her, so we'll see if an opening turns up. Say hi to family for me, Phil."

Phil muttered through the mic at Clint's sarcasm, knowing he was poking fun again at the fact that their closest family was and always would be business at SHIELD, but aside from that, he remained silent, letting Clint go on with his mission.

It was a few minutes before Clint found her again. He had almost begun to think he might've lost her for the night, until he found the Widow standing perfectly still on the side of the street, staring intently into a second story window. If he strained his ears, he could just hear some soft music playing inside. When he looked, he could see a woman through the large window, and a young girl dancing as well.

Another woman walked into the room, and the girl—her daughter, probably—ran up and hugged her. They both waved to the other woman and walked out. They had just started to turn the corner down the street when the woman still in the building picked up something—probably something left by the girl—and ran outside and after them.

What significance this had to the Widow, Clint had no idea, but when he looked back to his target, he noticed her slipping into the open building.

His first thought was another string of curses. Was she planning to take out someone? That was his second thought. He had figured she was going back to her safe-house, but was she really? Had his moment of hesitation earlier cost someone's life now? Was she laying her web as he sat on the roof across the street completely helpless?

Then she reappeared in the room and dropped the small bag she had been carrying with her. Hawkeye raised his bow, pulling out a modified arrow and taking aim. He wouldn't hesitate this time—the exploding arrow would do the job—even if it might leave a bit of a mess in his wake. But he was determined not to let his mistake earlier cost yet another life at her hands.

And then he let the bowstring slack for the second time in one day. He had no idea what was going on, he thought he must've been insane, but no—it had to be real. There was still the faint flow of music coming from the building, and it seemed so innocent, he almost reconsidered his certainty that she was the Widow yet again. Why? She was dancing.

Hesitant at first, just small movements and she wandered around the mirrored room, taking it in like a drink of water. But then the music got a little louder, and suddenly, she was up on her toes, gracefully and effortlessly spinning once in place. Then a leap. And another spin.

And as quickly as she had started, it was over.

The way she had landed placed her face to face with the mirrored wall, and she sat there staring at it with an oddly misplaced expression. It almost looked like fear or hurt. Neither the feelings of a killer, so Clint knew he was wrong. But before he could know what it was for certain, she collected her bag and dashed out of the building and down the street, leaving Clint staring after her.

"Coulson—you around?" Clint asked the empty street.

"I'm always here. I wear this headset while I sleep, even," the handler shot back at him wryly.

Clint nodded, sympathizing. They were definitely married to the job, two guys who put their whole lives into their work—Clint because he didn't have much else to live for or places to go, and Coulson probably simply because he loved it.

"Well she's gone for today," He reported, reclining back on the roof with a sigh. "She'll be in the safe-house right now, and I'm sure Fury would be pissed if I tried to infiltrate it blind and made a mess of things. I'll follow her back and stake myself outside—I can get her when she comes out."

"And then we'll have this one off our hands for good," Coulson agreed. Clint figured he disliked the idea of a lot of what Clint did more than he said sometimes. Phil was a good man, he didn't wish anyone grief—least of all an arrow in the back. Though even he believed thoroughly in justice and the cause of taking out the world's evils at large.

"Yeah," Clint sighed, a trace of tiredness in his voice, not being able to push aside the image of the Widow, living a life that could've been his, and the single fissure in her seamless mask when she had let herself twirl for just a moment—so quick it might not have been real—to the music. "Yeah, we will. Hawkeye, over and out for the night."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Big thanks to **_**Arabian Forest**_** and crimescenelover for being the only two to review out of the 143 of you that read it. That's right, I know how many people read it, so don't be lazy, just leave a review sayin liked it or loved it or hated it or whatever—especially if you're one of the 10 people following or favoriting, hahaha. As well, to **_**crimescenelover**_** directly: Thank you for pointing that out, and I'm in love with your review, being you actually took the time to think it out. I know the two exact spots you're talking about, as I went and reread it a third time myself after publishing it but was too lazy to do anything at 2:00 in the morning. It should be fixed now, as I'm known to hate stuff like that. Anyways, forward-ho and on with the story! Hang on for the ride—cuz this is a long one.**

The safe house was a small building, a little grungy on the outside and made up of what seemed to be two parts: a garage-like room and then living quarters. The few windows there were had been shuttered closed with the exception of the dusty window on the garage, and he didn't expect it any different. The surprise, in fact, was the fact that she had been in there so long. That night he followed her back had passed, then a day, and now it was partly through another night. A few hours ago, another man had walked into the building and hadn't left—there seemed to be no other people with her but the man.

Clint shook his head. It wasn't adding up quite right. Her patterns hadn't been concise enough to place perfectly, but never before had she been shuttered away in the place for so long. He was starting to worry, in all honestly—maybe something was wrong, maybe he had missed something, or maybe, even, she had laid a trap for the man who had gone inside and was planning and carrying out his demise as Clint sat by.

"Eventually, Fury's going to be, well, quite furious at this lack of results, agent," Coulson sighed through the earpiece.

Clint glared at the dusty garage window he had been staring at for more than twelve hours with barely any breaks. He briefly replied, "He can put someone else on the job."

"Now, now, Barton," the tired handler reprimanded patiently, "You and I both know that you're the best option here, if not the only, but he doesn't like to be reminded of that."

Hawkeye shrugged. He knew he probably shouldn't be talking so close by the target's safe house, but if the case had been dead this long, exposure might just speed it up, which lead to him throwing most cautions like silence to the wind as he said back, "Well, even Fury needs a rain check every so often. Besides, it's not like he gets off his but to do anything these days, yet he gets the better paycheck."

"Barton," Phil said firmly through the communication device. Clint could tell he was just as worn out by this one as he was, and knowing he probably could have ended it for them both by now made Hawkeye a little guilty.

Suddenly, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there was movement through the window. It was almost too dirty to make out but his sharp eyes handled it alright.

Two people entered the garage, a man and a red-haired woman. The Widow and the man he had seen earlier. They appeared to be talking about something—him doing most of the talking, and her listening with tense body language. Was she biding her time to pounce on him? Or did something he said have her thinking hard? It was hard to tell from Hawkeye's perch on the neighboring house.

The girl waked over to a metal cabinet thing and pulled out some papers. She proceeded to return to the man and hand them over, speaking a few words that Hawkeye couldn't make out. The man shuffled through them, speaking in what appeared to be an angry and louder voice, and then he paused, doing something Clint wasn't expecting at all. He hit her. He actually took his hand and hit one of the world's most feared assassins.

Clint sucked in a tight breath at the scene. Things just got complicated. This man must've had past contact with the Widow, and it looked as if anything, he was her superior, not a man who had unfortunately fallen into her web and had death marked on his brow.

The Widow turned her face back to him, and Clint suspected a subtle deadly gleam in her eyes—the same one he himself might've had—and she muttered something unintelligible.

Before Clint knew what was going on, she was on the garage floor, and the man had kicked her with a cry of rage. He yelled something, loud enough that Hawkeye could just make out the words "lesson" and "respect" before the man kicked her again.

She was suddenly on her feet, a small gun produced from what seemed like thin air grasped in her hand. She had turned on the man, and clearly, by the bewildered expression on his face, he was watching his life flash before his eyes and had not expected the loyal dog to turn on her masters. But the shot was never fired, and the bullet never met its mark. Something much different happened right then, and something changed entirely.

There was a single arrow protruding from his neck.

He dropped instantly.

Clint lightly gasped in shock where he was kneeling on the roof, realizing his bow was in his hand and raised, his other hand suspended where he had released a drawn bowstring and arrow just seconds ago. The Widow, gun still raised, slowly turned her head to look through the window, now shattered, at the archer perched across the street.

Their eyes only locked for a minute, stormy greyish blue on green, before Clint took his bow and bag and fled over the rooftop. It wasn't until he was out of her line of sight and she was only just out of his that he realized again, he should have loosed another arrow. Another perfect shot down the drain. By the time this was over and he was sitting in the debriefing room with Fury himself, probably, this might just constitute as the most failed mission ever.

XxXxXxX

The Black Widow was thoroughly confused. It wasn't an emotion she was used to—confusion or surprise. Yet she was experiencing both, at the same time. If anyone had jumped at her right then, gun still pointed at where one of her few directors had stood just a moment ago, they probably would have died. It was a fact. Jumping out at a highly trained assassin holding a gun and over-alert out of confusion and surprise was a very bad idea.

Thankfully, no one was that stupid.

The Widow turned her gaze downwards at the prostrate body of the supervisor with curiosity then. She blinked once. Twice. Cocked her head to the side. Blinked a third time. Now what was she to make of this all?

The man had been sent to check in with her on her current mission. That was a fact. She had delayed killing her target because she was under the suspicion that she was being followed. Another fact. Her lack of results had frustrated him, and he had lashed out at her. Fact. Her worst skill, the one she never had learned, was taking criticism from her supervisors. Definate fact.

So of course then, she had turned on him, like the loyal hunting dog bites its own master when his tail is stepped on. She probably would have shot him. Maybe not. Maybe she would have been slower. A bullet to the shoulder, or the arm. A kick like the one he'd aimed at her. Maybe she'd have turned his lesson in respect around on the supervisor and taught him respect at her hands. Or maybe she would've just killed him right there in anger and being mistreated so long. So why was it that there was an arrow in his neck and not a bullet hole between his eyes?

This archer made her thoughtful. Curious. Very curios. She had indeed been followed by someone—this archer—but then why was it that he shot her supervisor and not herself? Wasn't that why she was being followed? No one ever followed her to get to her supervisors. Spies, grunts, mob men—they didn't follow the biggest gun to get to the factory. No, they followed the little trails, the easy ones. They didn't follow her—not if it could be avoided. So the only plausible excuse was that the archer had been following her to deal with her, and the only time people followed her was to kill her. So then the question remained: Why shoot the supervisor and leave her untouched?

Curios. _Very_ curious.

XxXxXxX

SHIELD was onto him.

That very next afternoon, Coulson said into the earpiece in a worn voice, "Agent, you need to finish this, now. I don't know why you're holding off, but I know you are. You never take this long—I don't care how 'hard to track' she is or how many 'bad shots' you've had. Fury wants this over, within the next day. An airplane will pick you up tomorrow morning at 8:00 sharp."

And that was how Clint had ended up in a tree as the sun went down, just on the outskirts of the town where he knew she would pass by. He was ready. His bow was set, a standard arrow already notched. He wouldn't need anything fancy for this one. It would be a modest end for the one of the world's most feared, skilled, and deadly assassins.

"Do you want to talk about anything, Barton?" Coulson asked over the device, not betraying any emotion but not being overly businesslike either. He knew Clint, he knew something was up, so he must've figure something was wrong, and even if Clint didn't want to spill, he'd chide himself for not asking probably.

Clint shrugged to himself, "Not really. Just waiting."

"This has been one hell of a case, hasn't it, agent?" Coulson muttered.

"It's been… something, alright," he replied. "Hang on…"

He'd kept his eyes scanning the area continuously, and he had just caught a glimpse of telltale fiery red hair. His bow was raised quicker than one could blink their eye and he had already loosened his fingers to let the arrow fly to its mark. She was there, she had turned the corner, but something about her posture unnerved him. She was tense… almost defiant in a way. No... it was more. Something else.

She was looking right at him.

His fingers suddenly stopped, the pads just barely restraining the taught bowstring from snapping forward and launching the arrow.

"No way," he muttered under his breath.

She was at least two to three hundred yards away and had only just turned the corner, and he was fairly decently concealed in the tree. No feasible way could she have immediately spotted him there. Another thing that just wasn't possible.

"Agent? Barton? What is it?" Coulson began chattering away in his ear, slight worry threading his voice. "What's happened?"

"She—She sees me," he almost laughed in his mildly impressed state. His bow lowering itself, his hand loosening the drawn string.

Coulson, of course, immediately went haywire. He began saying something like "compromised" and "get out" and all that stuff when a mission completely goes into flames. Of course, this one must've been more than flames. This mission had exploded. It had exploded with the force of a nuclear bomb.

"How…?" he trailed off, tilting his head ever so much to the side, still maintaining eye contact with the girl.

She raised one delicate finger to her eye, and then she pointed upward. She pointed a second time to him—no—behind him. He looked up, not believing the little black device embedded in the tree bark that he had somehow missed, and then he looked over his shoulder, another one in the tree a few yards away. Cameras.

Then he did laugh. Not much, but enough. A small, light, disbelieving laugh.

"Barton? Barton! Communicate here!" Coulson snapped. "I'm blind—what is _going on_."

It was funny to see Coulson loose his cool, on the rare occasion like this. It almost never, and he meant _never_, happened. He wryly smiled, "She's watching me. And listening to us from these cameras—maybe they've got mics in them. Tricky little fox, she is."

Two hundred yards away, he watched a faint, amused smile tug at the corners of her mouth. He smiled as well.

Coulson didn't reply. There was a distinct _click_ in his ear as Coulson shut the device off. The poor handler. He was probably getting whipped by Fury right then—and that's if he hadn't just fainted right then and there at the news.

"So are you going to stand there? Or would you like to come up and enjoy the view?" he called out. Why he was talking to the assassin he was sent to kill, God only knew. He didn't even know if he should expect a reply either.

But he got one. She cocked her head slyly, replying in perfectly clear English, not Russian or with a Russian accent as he heard was her native language, and in a quiet voice that only just carried to him, "I'm not much for the heights. Perhaps you'd find it much more interesting down here—Barton, was that your name I heard?"

He knew he should lie, say something else. Make up a different name. Not screw this up more than it already was. But still, he honestly answered, "It is Barton. Clint Barton. Yours?"

"The Black Widow, but I'm guessing you already knew that," she shrugged off the question. Of course he shouldn't have actually expected an honest answer. But then again, it was honest, just as it would have been if he'd answered "Hawkeye." Their work was as much their identity, if not more, than anything else.

He carefully, slowly, climbed down to the lowest branch, saying, "But surely you've got another name?"

"If I do, I've forgotten," she replied dismissively. She was good, Clint had to admit. Apparently better to sticking with it than he was at the moment.

He let his feet dangle below him and laid his bow across his lap. He looked at her for a moment, taking her in. She had wandered closer, and he hadn't even noticed. Matter of fact, she was close enough now that their conversation could be held in normal conversational voices, not calls to each other two hundred yards away. Perhaps that was better for the both of them. No need to expose two killers having an evening chat to everyone in the near vicinity.

"Why haven't you shot me yet?" she asked blatantly. "Obviously that's what you're here for. And don't lie, I can tell."

"Considering you've been listening in on me and Coulson today, I'd say you already knew that. As for why I haven't followed through, I don't know. I hope you know I'm going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble for it though," he told her, almost in a mockingly reprimanding voice, like it was completely her fault that he was messing this one up so bad.

"You shot that man," she stated. It wasn't a question. She wasn't even really asking why.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Who do you work for, Agent Barton?"

He sighed, "SHIELD. I figured you would know that. Or wouldn't care, either way."

She looked around for a moment thoughtfully before saying, "There are a lot of people who'd like me dead. For most of them, it's beyond their reach. For you, maybe not—but you're not going to kill me anyways."

"Oh, I'm not, am I?" he retorted with a raised eyebrow.

She took in a deep breath and said, "I do not understand you, Agent Barton."

It was probably a leap for her to admit that to the man who was sent to kill her, and Clint recognized that. No matter how minor it was, no matter how subtle, she had admitted not knowing what was going on. That was a dangerous thing, in this line of work.

"Look—I know you. Not like—well—I know where you come from. Same place I was a long time ago," he admitted, rewarding her small openness with a bit of his own. "You and I just ended up on different paths lead by different people. I could have easily been in your shoes. So what do you say about coming back with me to HQ? I'm sure we could work something out."

"You were sent to kill me. What makes you believe I would be fool enough to walk into the hands of the company that sent you to do so?" she snapped. He recognized her body language, the minute signs. She was a cornered animal, and he was one of the things blocking her. "Why would I even consider that for one minute, Agent?"

"Because, it's not a good place for you, where you are now. You don't think I know? You don't like being trapped—well, SHIELD would give you more freedom. And don't act like you've got anywhere else to go, because you don't. You would've killed that man earlier yourself. Eventually, word's going to get around that the monster has turned on its creator, and not even the people you work for are going to be likely to want something uncontrollable and angry," he called her out honestly. Why sit there and use sugar-coated half-truths?

And that, apparently, was what she wanted. Someone in their line of work liked the truth, and if they didn't have to get dirty to get it, if it was given to them on a silver, gem-encrusted platter, it was a rare gift. Though he could tell by the flash in her eyes that she didn't appreciate being called out, he saw that he had gained a little bit of ground, maybe even a little trust, by laying things bare and candid for her.

"I don't know," she stated. "I've done a lot of things. You're company might not want someone like me if they're set out to stop people who do what I do. My ledger's full of red, it isn't pretty."

"I'll clear it," he said. He couldn't believe what he was promising here, but something about her, something about what he saw in her, something made him want to. And suddenly, he knew he'd go very very far to make this work. To bring her back and give her the chance she hadn't gotten and he'd been graced with. "Somehow, it'll work."

"If you cleared that—if you wiped it clean, you realized the clean sheet would already have red in it? I'd owe you everything," she muttered, almost revealing just how scary the thought was that she'd owe someone that much—her life, even, in her mind.

"Your decision," he said. "A plane's coming to pick me up tomorrow morning, whether I've killed you, let you live, or brought you back against orders. I'd tell you where to find me, but I doubt I need to."

He was right, he could tell by the look in her eyes. Even if he hadn't won and she didn't come, she'd be following him tonight. The thought should probably worry him, but he couldn't blame her. If someone was sent to kill him, he'd follow them too.

"Agent," she said, in way of farewell. Nothing else. Just that.

"Call me Clint," he shot back, just as she had moved away and disappeared back into the town and out of his sight.

He sighed, heading back to his small motel room that he'd only used for maybe one night since arriving in the town. He didn't look forward to explaining this one to Coulson tonight.

**AN: Should be relatively free of mistakes, but again, too late to consider revising it until tomorrow. Let me know if you find any. As well, hope you liked it alright. I'm debating whether or not to include Clint's conversation with Coulson, so feel free to leave your opinion on that one in a review. No idea when chapter three will be up. Probably within the next day or two. As well, this story will probably continue to four, or five chapters, depending on where I want to take it. ALSO! **Check out my profile for any news concerning the story. If nothing else, I usually update that.****


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Haha, so more reviews this time, pats on the head for you all. The only reason I ask for them is I really do take them into account and prefer to know when something's up. Like Nat, I don't like being blind. Of course, I'm sure where it'd cost her life, it'd only cost me a bad grammar mistake or something. Same thing in my mind though. To **_**Rachel McN**_**: Yeah, I thought it would make sense that if Nat was caught by surprise, she'd turn around with deadly determination not to be caught again. And it's always fun messing with Coulson. To **_**Guest**_**: I don't care of your review was in gibberish (which I happen to speak quite well). It helps to have any feedback at all and thank you for replying even at a late time. To the rest of you: you're wonderful, and thank you for taking the time to comment, I can assure you all I've read each review at least four times over. **

**Anyways, I'm looking into setting up a facebook page sometime in the future, because I really really hate long ANs, but I'd like to be able to communicate with each and every person who takes the time to be interested. For now, check out my profile for news, but I'll keep you all posted. Godspeed!**

Coulson wasn't happy. Of course, that wasn't much of a surprise to Clint. Phil already bordered on an apathetical state most days, not really happy not really sad, just… Phil Coulson. One of those factual, simple, down to earth guys. Maybe that was why Clint got on so well with the handler. But of course, there were those times where Coulson was quite disappointed in Clint. Those times happened to include when Clint admitted going behind everyone's back, not taking out the target, purposely not completing the mission, and inviting highly deadly assassins back to HQ to hang out.

It was a rare occurrence, but understandable in this case, he supposed.

"Mind saying that again?" Coulson asked, as if tiredly reprimanding a little boy.

Clint blew out a short breath. Coulson knew what he'd done and knew it was true, but it wasn't going to help anyone to sit here and repeat it over and over. But he complied, trying to be slightly decent, "I told her to come back with me."

"And you figure Fury's just going to invite her on in for tea, do you? Did you ever think what would happen if—no—_when_ he turned around and had someone kill her on the spot. What happens if they don't make a clean kill, Clint?" Coulson retorted with a sigh, half anxious and half just plain worn out. "Then you'll have a huge mess on your hands in the middle of base. She'll go haywire, who knows what damage she'd do before you had the sense that you were wrong and decided to take her out yourself."

"I'm not killing her, Phil," Clint stated.

It was simple, really. Maybe he had meant to kill her before. Maybe he had really given it an honest try. But now, he was set on the fact that she should come back with him. The fact that anyone should tell him no only made his mind more set on seeing it through. He had promised things, and he wasn't reneging without throwing everything he had onto the table. Moreover, you didn't get the pit-bull to give up on the bone by trying to pull it out of his grasp with force. He'd pull back harder.

"That's exactly my point, Clint!" Phil snapped. He must've been really worried to actually address Clint by first name over the earpiece. "You're not going to kill her, so who is?"

"No one."

It was simple.

"If she turns around and starts killing everyone in sight?" he pointed out.

"She won't," Clint shrugged. Sure, he hadn't known her for very long, but he wouldn't bet anything on the chance that she'd do anything like that. She was an assassin, not a rabid dog. People like them didn't just whip out the guns and start firing like crazy into the main HQ. There was no reason to. If anything else, she was rational. And she definitely wasn't the person he'd been sent to kill—he'd been sent to kill a mindless, mass-murdering threat, not a girl who'd simply had no other options. There was hope—somewhere.

"Look," Clint told Coulson. "I just want everyone ready. I want to be able to walk onto that plane with her tomorrow morning and not have to deal with everyone in sight panicking or trying to shoot us. Just… tell them if they do anything, I'll shoot them myself."

"Yeah, you'd go on to shoot innocent agents but not the assassin you were supposed to. This is messed up," Phil said. Clint could practically see him rolling his eyes right then. "I'll be on that plane, Agent. And I want some details before we get to Fury. I'm not blindly exposing my neck for this. We're already going to be in a load of it."

Clint smiled. He liked Coulson. _Really_. He was a good man. He was trusting too, even if it was hard to be when you held jobs in their field. But he had no doubt he'd won the handler over. Clint never asked for anything, so he was sure Coulson was hesitant to say no. Fury… now that might lead to issues, but Coulson… No, Coulson was good. He'd help Clint. And certainly when he met Natasha in the morning, she'd win him over in a heartbeat. If Phil somehow managed to like Clint, he'd just love her.

"Thank you, Phil," Clint said to the handler. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah yeah," Coulson said—his own version of farewell at times like this.

There was no telltale click in his ear signifying his disconnection—he'd still be connected until Clint was withdrawn in the plane in the morning—and likewise, Clint left in the earpiece. But with all hope, nothing would make their communication necessary in the night. Clint might even get a good night's sleep, for once.

Clint didn't bother to change much—just switch into a different black t-shirt than the one he had on. When you were on a mission, if you slept, field agents didn't exactly sleep in fluffy pink pajamas, and Clint, who slept with his bow and arrows next to him bed and a small, sheathed knifed under his pillow, wasn't likely to be throw bunny slippers into the mix either.

He looked out the window at the dark sky-there were no stars. He couldn't even see the moon, as the clouds had still persisted and hung over the city—only getting darker if anything. Clint shrugged, glad to be leaving the place soon, and he began to pack his things for the morning.

Aside from his bow, the small knife, and a single small gun, clip loaded, he packed all the weapons. Also, he packed all the case files that SHIELD had agreed were safe enough to be brought—ones that wouldn't cause any harm if found by the wrong people. Ones, in Clint's opinion, that were wrong. Undetailed, yes, but also wrong, in his new mindset. Aside from the red hair, Clint Barton had decided that they had left out enough to reach the point of inaccuracy. They'd never mentioned how she'd been a soldier of misfortune, how perhaps, it wasn't all her own choosing, her lifestyle. Again, he reasoned with himself as he tucked away the files: if he'd gotten the chance, the life he had, she deserved it too.

He was so deep in thought, packing the files and miscellaneous gear, that he hadn't even heard someone enter the room. He didn't hear them slide through the third story window, and he didn't hear it shut behind them. It wasn't until she cleared her throat that he knew the Widow was there.

But of course, he didn't know it was her right away, and he had his hand on his bow and his other reaching for an arrow before he understood the situation. And the minute his hand had gone for the bow, she'd locked a tiny handgun onto him—sighted right between his eyes, no doubt. It was an uneasy moment of tension for both of them. Neither wanted to give up their safety while the other was holding their own weapon.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said, trying to keep his voice casual. Right then, she probably had the upper hand, considering he hadn't knocked or drawn an arrow back and she just had to pull the trigger. It was one of those times where he preferred to play his cards carefully.

She lightly snorted, not saying anything and continuing to watch him with steady eyes.

"Okay," he sighed. "I'll put it down. It'd be nice if you didn't blow my head off."

He gently laid the bow on top of his duffle bag. Considering the moment, it wouldn't hurt to give up his own weapon. She'd have blown his head off with it or without it if she meant to, so why not? Why not do what he could to make it look as if he was giving even when he didn't really have anything to give?

It was enough. She looked around quickly with her eyes, just once, before lowering the gun, leveling its barrel to the ground.

"So, did you just stop in to chat?" he asked, trying to keep it light. "It's nice weather we're—no, let's be honest. The weather sucks."

"I've noticed," she said.

He noticed her hair was windblown a bit, and she looked a shade paler than usual, not that'd he'd known her long enough to be certain. But a moment of thought and he decided he was right, and it made sense. She'd been out in the storm, and of course she had, because she probably couldn't go back to the safe house or any shelter organized by her employers, not now that one of her supervisors was lying dead on the floor in one and she had probably been classified as having gone rogue.

Granted, she probably wouldn't be the kind to come in and ask him if she could kick back inside for a bit, so he figured there was something else. But it wouldn't hurt to let her warm up a bit as well. After all, he _was_ trying to get on her good side.

"You could use a jacket or something," he pointed out. "It's freezing out there."

"Didn't have time to run home," she said briefly, her tone level.

He held himself from rolling his eyes and explained, "I've got one—on the bed there."

She eyed it but didn't make a move. Her hands still on her gun, even if it wasn't pointed at him.

"That's not why I came," she said. "I wanted to know… know if you're being honest."

"I told you, it's not a trap—they won't kill you. That was the plan, but I'm making a different call. Fury will come to see it sooner or later—he like's having fancy guns in his armory, and you'd be one of the best," he pointed out.

She blinked, scrunching her eyebrows in a fashion that made her look even younger before saying, "Not that. Is SHIELD really like what I've been told? What's it like… working there?"

He thought for a moment before realizing what she was getting at—She didn't want to know if they gave dental or if they had a break room. No, none of that. She wanted to know if what she was getting herself into would be like where she had come from. Something about that reached Clint's heart in a way he usually didn't acknowledge. She didn't care if they shot her on sight—she'd take the risk of her life willingly—but even more than her death, she feared getting back into another business or organization like the one she'd just officially turned her back on.

That was what sealed the deal completely. There was proof that she didn't want to go back, she didn't choose the lifestyle she'd been living. She'd just been taken for the job and happened to turn out good at it. Really good. She'd had a specific set of skills, and she'd not cared how she'd used them. So she used them to manage to get by and survive, but now she was looking to do it no more—even at risk of her life.

"Well, it's not the prettiest job. Pay's not very good, and you're more or less shut off from everything else. You'll still be doing… what you already do, but it'll be for the good of everyone. It'll be to help others, not to harm them," he tried. It was hard to explain SHIELD. There were people who'd question it and it's motives, and understandably so. And it functioned on a higher level than normal people. It was funny, that. To think somewhere along the line, they, killers, had become a level higher than everyone else.

She sighed, clicking on the safety on her gun and tucking it in a makeshift holster made out of cloth tied around her thigh and letting her arms fall to her sides.

"Thank you—for not blowing out my brains, I mean," he said. "And wait until we get to shield, they'll give you a real holster of that—and more. If nothing else, they've an endless supply of toys."

She shrugged the thanks off, saying, "I don't have many bullets in that right now—it'd be a waste to put one in you when I might need it later."

"You can have mine, if you'd like," he offered. Suddenly, he had a mental image of Fury's head spontaneously exploding and Coulson going into seizures at the thought of him offering up his guns to the Widow.

To escalate it, Clint proceeded to offer to let her stay in the room with him for the night.

The people in high places back at SHIELD headquarters wouldn't be happy at all, but hey, he figured, it was bad manners to let a woman spend the night on the streets, even such a highly feared assassin as herself.

"You can take the bed, Widow—I find couches and floors quite comfortable," he yawned, sleepily, wondering what time it had gotten to be. Surely it was late.

She looked at the bed, a very faint, almost completely unnoticeable longing somewhere deep in her eyes—probably the Widow's equivalent of jumping onto the bed and rolling in the covers with greed and possessiveness of the comfortable sleeping space. But she shook her head, turning back to Clint, "It's… Natasha. And you take it. I'm not tired."

Meaning she was throwing herself out there by trusting him this far, but she wasn't trusting him enough to let herself get into a vulnerable state like sleep. Still, the fact that she'd entrusted him with a name to call her by was astounding in itself.

"If you say so," he fought the urge to call her out and debate the issue as she'd already taken a jump and given another piece of trust in the moment. Doubtful he'd get that much sleep either, but he would give it an honest attempt as he plopped himself down on the bed, not bothering with covers. "We're leaving this place and heading for the place tomorrow at seven… waking up around six. Try not kill me off in my sleep, yeah?"

"I'll try," she muttered, sitting in the chair, her gun in her lap and her eyes directed towards the window.

xXxXxXxXx

7:45 in the morning and they were standing in an open field awaiting their plane in the morning fog. Somehow, he'd gotten a fairly decent amount of sleep, and somehow, she'd not killed him in the middle of it. _Somehow_, they were both there live and in one piece.

… Or mostly, anyways.

The Black Widow looked like she was ready to jump out of her skin or turn around and shoot the first thing that moved. Well, not entirely. To anyone she must have looked more or less apathetical, expressionless, collected, but Clint could make out the tiny shift of weight balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to move, and the vague way her hand stretched by the gun she had strapped to her leg in the little makeshift holster. Apparently, waiting to be picked up by a plane in an exposed field and letting strangers take her life into their hands wasn't something she did often.

7:50 in the morning and every minute felt like an eternity. Waiting. Waiting and looking. A little more waiting.

Clint wasn't looking that much more relaxed himself. He was definitely calmer overall, but he could tell that there would be at least a little trouble coming up. That, and He never liked having to waste time listening to Fury when he was mad. But if nothing else, he felt that this was going to end up worth it.

7:55 and the plane quietly touched down in the field, bouncing twice, arriving five minutes early.

It took a moment before the back hatch opened and dropped down to reveal Coulson, good old Coulson, and two unknown agents off to the side watching the pair of killers blankly. Clint didn't exactly expect Coulson to run out and embrace him in post-mission reunion at any given time, and this was no exception. So Clint lightly nudged her with his elbow, giving her a little start before walking up the ramp—the Widow on his heels.

"Coulson," he dipped his head in greeting.

"This is her?" Phil asked, not taking his eyes from the Widow.

It looked as if she was almost tempted to roll her eyes, but she replied in short order, "Who else would it be?"

"Charming, isn't she?" Clint lightly smiled, almost laughing. "It's probably her personality that changed my mind—I wouldn't have wanted to go without it."

Natasha shot him a narrowed glance but didn't say anything else. Of course, she didn't need to convey her thoughts towards him with words. She seemed to have a way of making her feelings perfectly clear to Clint when she so desired.

The three of them walked back into the middle section of the plane as the hatch closed and the plane took off again quickly. Finally, they were homeward bound to SHIELD and all that came with it.

The plane was arranged quite nicely. Though not the stealthiest, quickest, or most fit for combat, it was definitely comfortable, and it was the one that usually surfaced when Coulson or Fury or one of the other high ranking directors or agents had need to fly. Basically, there was the cockpit, and then behind that, a room with cushioned seats along both walls for about half of the room and a table with a few stationary chairs at the other half. Farther back, there was a bathroom and a small sleeping room, with two bunks should the need arise or the flight be horridly long. Walk back any farther, and you'd find yourself walking out of the cargo hold and out the back hatch, should it be open.

They took seats at the table and sat in awkward silence for a moment. Coulson looked thoughtful as ever, Clint was watching both the other two and gauging their states, and the Widow looked like she was subtly analyzing them and collectively picking out ways to escape, fight, take over the plane, kill them, or just kill herself if necessary. It ranked near the top of awkward silences.

Finally, Coulson was the one to break the ice by saying, "Clint—maybe we should talk for another moment… to the cockpit?"

Clint threw a sideways glance at the Widow from his peripherals but nodded and followed Coulson towards the front.

The minute they were gone, the Widow let herself relax a little more—though visibly there was no change. She figured there would be cameras about somewhere in the plane. If there weren't… well, better to assume. She didn't need to move either way, however. All her work was done with scanning eyes.

She picked out that there didn't seem to be any ready weapons in the room—though she still had her gun. From what she could tell, the back door wasn't locked in any way, so if she needed to get out or hide, she could go through there and in the least, find a way to keep them from following her through. But even the familiar comfort of cataloguing everything of use in the scene wasn't making everything completely solid. She was in an enclosed space, multiple miles up, with largely people she didn't know—people who had originally sought to kill her.

The door towards the cockpit opened and shut softly as Clint came back in, without Coulson. She walked over and sat in the chair by her, turning to face her and rest his elbows on his knees. Before he even spoke, she knew something was up.

"So, um, you might not like this a whole lot… I need your gun," he began. "Fury agreed to let you in—so long as you aren't armed."

She narrowed her eyes at him, a clear, desperate refusal to surrender her only form of defense.

"Can we compromise?" Clint asked carefully, knowing he was treading on thin ice but attempting anyways. Fury would kill him, but he sympathized with her on this one.

Her eyes stayed narrow, but she conceded to ask, "What's the compromise?"

"I'll let you have my knife. You can tuck it in your boot where no one will see it—surely that'll get you through," he explained, taking his small hunting knife and wiggling it up and down, like it would be more convincing if he shook the thing at her.

She stared at him for what seemed like a fairly long time. Clint felt uneasy having her look at him with such concentration, but finally, slowly, she nodded her head a miniscule bit. She did him the pleasure of carefully removing the gun and setting it on the table and taking the knife from him, tucking it in her boot, but not without saying simply, "Don't make me regret it."

He took in a deep breath, knowing that the battle wasn't even half way over. Honestly, he had no idea how he would make the next part work out, but he had to, because her safety may have been contingent upon it. The fact that he'd given her a knife beforehand didn't help his case, but he'd rather she came after him with that than the gun anyways.

"So, there's something else. Fury wants… Well, you see," he tried, but finally, he just pulled the simple silver pair of handcuffs out from under his jacket.

Of course, it didn't end well.

He was on the ground so fast that he hadn't even had a chance to blink or draw in a shocked breath—Not that he was really that shocked.

He rolled over, using his bigger size and weight to his advantage and forcing the Widow onto her own back in turn. Unfortunately, the move came with consequence, and a minute later, she brought her knees up hard and fast, ramming him in the stomach and knocking out his breath. He backed off of her, taking a minute to regain the air in his lungs, but she didn't give him the chance before diving forward again. He only barely moved quickly enough to avoid being pushed back onto the floor again, and they fell into what could only be described as a brawl, albeit much more graceful and skilled.

They were evenly matched, more or less. She was smaller by some but also a little quicker. He seemed to have more upper body strength and muscle, but she was more agile, flexible. Both of them were skilled beyond belief, and neither would give in without throwing out everything they had.

It wasn't for a good while, not until several couch cushions had been knocked about the room and a stray glass of water spilled, that finally, he wore her down. In the end, it was probably the fact that she was so exhausted and was just enough deprived of sleep that allowed him to get her on her back, her hands cuffed in front of her. He saw no reason to cuff them behind her back—he trusted her after all, and saw no reason to cuff her at all, let alone make her uncomfortable, much more trapped than she was already, and more embarrassed. But Coulson had told him that Fury would be much more lenient if she was contained and not an open threat.

Her eyes blazed, partially from the thrill and challenge of fighting someone so evenly matched and partially from fury. She growled lowly, "I'm going to kill you. I can't believe I…"

She trailed off. She didn't want to admit trusting him. Not even a little. Not now that she was on her back, cuffed, and held down by a knee and two strong hands.

"I know. I'm sorry, really," he sighed, scrunching his eyebrows a bit. "But it's for the best. You'll be out of them soon… Can I let you up without you landing that knife in my stomach?"

She had forgotten about the knife in her shock, and now she was considering it. He deserved it, damn him, she told herself. She had let him in a bit, agreed to his conditions, she had given up the only gun she'd had on her, for the sake of all things holy, and _that_ was how he repaid her. By tackling her and chaining her up like some kind of prisoner or animal. But then again—maybe that's what she was. Maybe she was, after all, a prisoner.

"Don't go looking at me like that, Nat—you know it had to be done. Fury's going to me much easier this way," he tried soothing.

"Don't call me that," she growled, unwavering.

He rolled his eyes and pushed himself up, taking her wrist and pulling her up in turn while saying wryly, "I so greatly appreciate your cooperation. Anyways, it's only for a short time, I'll convince Fury to see my side in like ten minutes flat. But until then—how about some crackers? And cheese? I'm starved, and I think Coulson's hoarding some in the Cockpit."

**AN: Yeah, it took me a while, but I'm not apologizing, since I write mainly for myself and for the fun of it, haha. And either way, it's over 4,000 words, so don't get greedy now. Buuuut, you know the drill: REVIEW, pretty please. Let me know what's right, wrong, and any errors you see hanging about—it's 12:32am and I'm not taking the time to proofread yet, understandably.**


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